Dangers of Allowing Teenage Boys to do ANYTHING
It wasn’t too long ago that I was a teenage boy. My exploits were tame, until I turned 18. I can’t blame anyone for that, though: I let myself get dragged into the situations.
Not all of these stories involve me, but I hope they serve their point.
Story number one:
My friends and I decided it was a good idea to play paintball in the middle of the night. It was out in the country, and we seperated into teams.
Everything was going fine until we reached a house at the top of the hill. A friend of mine, who was captain of the team, said, “Alright, when I hoot like an owl, Miller (not his real name), you come. Then we’ll make sure it’s clear, and I’ll hoot like an owl again. This time, Kennedy, you come.” Sure, no problem.
A few minutes pass, we hear the hoot of an owl, and Miller leaves. I’m looking behind me, trying to make sure no one from the other team sneaks up behind us. We’re using the entire neighborhood as a battlefield: Urban Warfare.
Finally, I hear the hoot of an owl. I duck down low, and head straight towards my team members. But something’s not right. I hear a loud squishing sound. Suddenly I’m sinking. OH SHIT!
My dumb ass had walked right onto the pool cover.
I ran to the edge of the pool. Miller and Hendricks (not his real name) were laughing. The lights inside the house went on, so we decided to split. I don’t think I had ever run so hard.
Story number two:
This story is more a cautionary tale involving the internet and teenagers, as much as anything.
A friend of mine, whom we’ll call Matthew decided it was a good idea to make homemade Napalm. He found the recipe online, and made it. He poured it into a two liter bottle, and taped 4 M80s to the bottle.
A few days later, Matthew told me he used it on an Emu at a local farm. I looked at him and said, “You blew blew up an Emu?”
He was quite serious in his response. His eyes were innocent, his voice full of wonder. “The head, the body, and the legs, sure. But the feet were still there!”
Story number three:
By the time this story takes place, I lived 800 miles away. Otherwise, I would sure have been apart of it. It’s another paint ball story. And it, again, involves Hendricks and Miller.
Our good friend Davis (not his real name) had joined them and several others for a game. It had gone well, and they were coming back.
Hendricks was riding shotgun with Davis, when he got the idea to load up his paint ball gun and fire a few rounds at Miller’s car, which was directly behind him. Through the streets of Gettysburg, these morons decided to continue their fight. I love them like brothers, but I pray they never reproduce.
Years ago, Will Smith put out a song call “Parents Just Don’t Understand.” I’m not yet a parent, but I caution all the parents out there: if you have teenage boys, do not let them do ANYTHING!